#before whump was here | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

jamiesfootball · 17 days

Note

i would LOVE to see what you do with “when will you learn?” for the prompt drabbles MWAH

All Rebecca had texted her mother that morning was, "Hope things are well [heart emoji]."

And then this shit.

"Again?! Mother, that's the third time this month."

"You know your father. He just gets a bit whimsical when things are going well."

"No. He's trying to buy you back. That's what he's doing."

"Well, they've all been lovely gifts!"

"Of course they are, mother. Because he's a miserable, shriveled up cock who thinks he can buy your affections because you let him get away with it."

"I'm not naive, Rebecca. I know exactly what kind of man your father is. You're the one who seems to need the reminder. Honestly, Sausage, when will you learn?"

"Argh!" Rebecca smashed at the middle finger emoji, the frustration only growing when she hit a pink heart instead and her handbag slipped out of her arms. "Shit!"

"Um. Everything alright?"

Rebecca swiveled on her heels; her coat slipped off, fluttering to the ground to join her handbag.

Standing next to his car, Jamie Tartt watched wide-eyed as his boss made a silly little fool of herself.

Perfect.

"Here, I can get that for you," he offered, already jogging towards her before she could respond.

Rebecca closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "Thank you, Jamie. Sorry, this whole morning has been a disaster."

"Not a problem," he insisted. He picked up her coat and, in an oddly solicitous gesture, gave it a little shake before holding it and her handbag out towards her with a formal, "Here you go, Ms. Welton."

"Rebecca, please," Rebecca corrected out of habit. She shuffled the items in her arm, trying to figure out how to free a hand. She had her keys, her scarf, a briefcase-styled handbag that she hadn't had the time to swap out that morning but that didn't work with the outfit she had on, her gym bag because Keeley insisted they move Pilates to after lunch this week, a to-go cup she'd impulsively asked the driver to stop for-

Her phone dinged. She jumped, nearly dropping the whole lot of it on the ground. "Shit."

"Do you need to get that?" asked Jamie. As if anticipating standing in for her coatrack, he carefully clutched her coat and the handbag that did work with her outfit against his chest. It did not match his iconography at all.

Rebecca waved him off. Flicking her phone over to silent, she complained, "No, no. My mother's just lost her fucking mind this morning."

She attempted to juggle everything again. Eventually, she noticed the silence. When she looked up, she found him staring at her uncomprehendingly.

The thing was that between Keeley's love of girl talk and the promotional materials Jamie regularly did for the club, Rebecca had an entire encyclopedia of knowledge about him stored in her head that she'd never even asked for. Jamie Tartt. Richmond's newly returned striker. Debuted at eighteen. Preferred whites over reds, evening showers, and knew a surprising amount about high-end cars. He also, somehow, regretted none of his tattoos.

It just felt like she already knew him.

Meanwhile back in reality, they'd only spoken a handful of times, and most of that had been contract negotiations and welcome schmoozing.

Probably not a good icebreaker then- maligning one's own mother at half-eight in the morning.

"Not that I speak to her like that," said Rebecca, the need to defend herself overriding any foot-to-mouth filters. "She's just been going through a rough patch with my father, and I think she's being stupid."

Well done, Stinky.

"Right. Um." He opened his mouth. Closed it. Held his arms out and asked, "Do you want help carrying all this in then?"

Gratitude filled her chest at the change of subject.

"Yes. That would be lovely, thank you."

Jamie smiled, lips and opinions kept tightly to himself. He popped off ahead of her to grab the door. With one more glance down at her phone, Rebecca found that at least one heart had flung free, sailing itself into her mother's waiting arms.

Her mum had sent one back in return.

The walk up to her office passed in relatively painless silence. She'd always assumed -- from the everything she knew about him -- that Jamie would be more of a talker. But then in the handful of months since he'd returned to Richmond on a permanent basis, he'd made himself eager to please and keen not to make waves with anyone whose name wasn't Roy Kent.

This was bad news for Rebecca, who personally could have used a small wake to clear the embarrassment lingering in the air. Where was Ted when you needed him?

Driven by mad compulsion and lack of Lasso, she found herself volunteering, "Really, I normally get on with my mother."

"It's alright, Ms. Welton. You don't have to explain anything to me," he answered. He chewed on the inside of his cheek. Then with a small grin, his eyes flicked towards her. "Besides, I wouldn't want to be judged on how I talk to my parents either. Doesn't make sense to judge anybody else on how they talk to theirs, you know?"

"Ooh, I like that. That's practically wisdom." She offered him her own commiserating smile. "I take it you don't get on with yours?"

Jamie shifted like he was about to put his hands in his pockets, only to remember at the last moment that he was actively carrying stuff. He settled for a half-hearted shrug. "I do with my mum, yeah. When I see her, that is."

"Does she live in Manchester?"

Jamie snorted. His eyes lit up. "Always. She'll never move either. Won't even let me buy her a new house or nothing. I tried to surprise her with a new car a while ago, and she asked me how I thought I'd be getting back to London with two cars."

"She sounds like a firecracker."

A fond smile broke out across his face, only to be reeled back in, dulled down into something wistful. "Yeah. She- yeah, she's great."

Without any flourish, he stepped ahead to open a door for her. She could see what Keeley meant when she described him as 'thoughtlessly sweet.' When he wasn't trying to push people's buttons, he was easy to like.

Not that he'd ever tried to push hers. Oh, no- she just hadn't liked him because Rupert had liked him.

Her heart stirred. That kind of behaviour she wasn't proud of anymore.

Pushing down the emotion knotting in her throat, she asked, "Does she have any plans to come see you play at any of our upcoming matches?"

"Nah," Jamie huffed. "No plans for any upcoming matches, no."

"Well then perhaps you should invite her." When he turned towards her with a question written in his furrowed, handsome face, she elaborated, "You know we always have spare tickets set aside for friends and family."

"I do know that, yeah." His eyes darted away from her. Some of the excitement faded from his expression. "Really, I appreciate the offer, but she doesn't come out to my games in Manchester either. She's good with catching me on TV when she can."

All signs indicated that she had hit a sore spot. She shouldn't interfere. Really, that would be the height of hypocrisy- her telling anyone what they should or shouldn't do about their parents. But with her hand gripped tight around the heart in her phone-

She was trying to do better.

Her mother had chosen gladly to stay in the ivory tower her father built. Rebecca might not be able to talk her into coming down, but perhaps she could convince Jamie not to leave closed a door that served him better open.

So she pressed, "How about you invite her to our semifinal match at Wembley?"

He froze up next to her.

"I know that we're playing against your old club, but really, it's a huge accomplishment for the team to have made it this far, and we wouldn't have done it without you," she told him bluntly. His ears caught pink. Emboldened, she continued, "And even if she doesn't care for football, I'm sure she'd love to see you. You can make a special occasion of it. Treat her to a night in London. I know two weeks is rather short notice, but I'm sure Higgins can help arrange some wonderful accommodations-"

"That's not going to happen," he cut her off sharply.

No. No, it wasn't a door at all. Rebecca knew that icy chill. For more than five years, she'd wake to find it haunting the cracks of her reflection in the mirror. Attention focused his straight ahead, not from awkwardness at the situation but in pure dismissal. Every one of Jamie's expressive features was schooled in position of bland indifference, a perfectly sculpted shell made out of a person.

Tower or not, he dawned his armour all the same.

"My apologies," she spoke softly. "I shouldn't have pushed."

They continued their walk up the stairs in silence.

When they arrived, he held up her coat and bag and asked in a nonchalant tone that bordered on boredom, "So where do you want these, then?"

It was exactly the attitude she'd expected from him at the start. Disappointment crawled into her chest and made a home.

"Right there on the tree by the door is fine," she sighed.

His brow furrowed. "Right there by the what- woah." He took a step back, eyeing her coat rack tree up and down appraisingly. "Nice. That's fucking mint, that is. You've got good taste."

A sharp laugh escaped her. "Why thank you. I happen to think so as well."

He hung her bag up. Then, gingerly, he arranged her coat on the other, smoothing out any wrinkles.

Guilt and care made for a strong mix at half eight in the morning. It would take a crueler person than her to leave things on such a sour note when he'd been nothing but darling company before she opened her mouth.

Willing to make a fool of herself one more time, Rebecca called out before he could leave- "Jamie."

He halted, already halfway out the door.

"I- apologise, if my earlier remark made you uncomfortable. I truly didn't mean for it. I only meant to say that-"

She took a step towards him. He stepped back, one foot out of the office.

Her heart felt positively chilled.

"The door is always open," she finished, defeat numbing her ears to her own pitch. Nonetheless, she perserved, determined to say her part even if the wind stole it away. "If you ever do change your mind, talk to Higgins. He'll see to it that she's treated like a VIP. Anyone important to you is important to this club."

A shadow crossed over his face; some dark presence moving in the tower just out of sight.

"I'll keep that in mind," he said cautiously. Then, as simple as snapping his fingers, he closed back up. The armour latched shut, and in it's place was the usual cocky arrogance -- the one she found herself growing reluctantly fond towards. He gave her a wave. "Thanks, Ms. Welton. You've been a help."

She frowned. Gathering the only name she'd never shared with disappointment to her chest, she shouted after him, "It's Rebecca!"

He was already gone, the sound of his footsteps on the stairs the only response.

#please someone take this away from me #I started this before I got sick and since then I don't know if I've recovered enough to word correctly #anyways #here's wonderwall #and by wonderwall I mean #Rebecca and Jamie have a brief discussion about mums #(while dads linger in the shadows)#rebecca welton #jamie tartt #ted lasso #ted lasso fic #writing prompt #technically #whump prompt #thought nothing super whumpy came from it #whoops

55 notes · View notes

carnivalcarriondiscarded · 5 months

Text

hi. here's a little over 5k words for the modern human au! entirely unedited, as usual! you'd think this is a full oneshot... ha... no... i actually have some warnings for this one - hospitals, panic attacks, major character injury / discussion of death / clinical description of injury.

in short, my writing comfort zone <3

The dial tone plays, and Barnaby looks down at his phone. Call ended stares back at him under Wally’s cheerful profile picture.

“He hung up on me,” Barnaby states. His lips twist and he tosses the phone onto the couch with a snarl of, “That little bastard.”

“Hey now,” Howdy says sharply, frowning at him. “That’s our friend you’re talking about.”

“Like he doesn’t deserve it! All I do is be supportive, understanding, and worry about his damn well being. And then he goes and acts like my very much well-founded concern is an attack!”

Howdy’s frown softens as he watches Barnaby pace, gesturing wildly.

“I love that RV. Maybe not as much as Wally, obviously, but it pains me that it needs to go. And it does need to go! Thing’s becoming a damn deathtrap.” Barnaby pushes his hair back and huffs. He glances at Howdy. “Right? I’m making the right call, here?”

“Of course you are,” Howdy says. “But-”

Barnaby cuts him off. “I tried to be nice about it. I tried to warm him up to the idea of retiring Home, yaknow? And what does he do instead of handling it - he revs up the tin can and runs. Home shouldn’t be started, let alone driven. It’s dangerous.”

It’s extremely dangerous. Wally is skilled at driving it, but no amount of skill will save him if it breaks in the middle of the freeway. What if the engine catches fire? What if a tire pops, or comes loose? Home is old, and wasn’t made to crumple in a crash. Barnaby doesn’t even know if the airbag still works. It’s not safe.

The thought of Wally bringing Home hurtling down the freeway at ten at night in a - quite honestly - not great mental state turns Barnaby’s stomach.

“I just wanted him to come back so we could talk about it,” Barnaby says. “I let him keep worming his way out of a serious conversation and now - now he’s -”

“Running away,” Howdy finishes. The point of his pen taps a rhythm against his notepad.

Barnaby jabs a finger at him. “Exactly. One tough, necessary decision and he turns tail. This isn’t gonna go away if he skips town! Not to mention how he isn’t giving a thought to how this might affect the rest of us.”

“Especially you.”

Barnaby throws his hands up with an indignant look. “Now not only do I have to hunt him down-”

“That would be a we scenario, Barn.”

“But we,” Barnaby concedes, “gotta try to knock some sense into that thick skull ‘a his, and drag him back home - kicking and screaming if we hafta.”

Howdy’s pen taps faster. “What if he doesn’t want to come back?”

“What if he-” Barnaby stops short and stares at him, wide eyed.

That’s not.

That wouldn’t happen, right? Wally would come back in the end. He wouldn’t decide to up and leave entirely, would he? He is in Home… all the essentials he needs are in that RV. Barnaby sits down heavily on Howdy’s threadbare couch. “What if he doesn’t want to come back.”

Wally would have to come back to clear out his studio - he’d never abandon his art. Then they’d have to go through everything inside the house and see what he wants to take, since not all of it is Barnaby’s. A lot of it is shared, so they might have to bargain on who gets what.

Then they’d all have to watch Wally get into his motorhome and drive away. Possibly for good.

Barnaby would be alone in that big house with Welcome, knowing that his closest companion is out of his life. Living somewhere else. It's sickening.

“I’m sure it won’t come to that, Barn,” Howdy says, watching him with furrowed brows and a deep frown - if Barnaby were feeling like himself, he’d crack a joke about him emulating Frank. “I can confidently say that Wally loves you more than that old RV.”

Barnaby snorts. “You sure about that?”

“Unflinchingly. Believe you me, he’s going to wallow for a day or so, and then Home will come rumbling back down your driveway like it never left.”

“I wish I could have your faith,” Barnaby mumbles. He exhales and picks up his phone. No missed calls, no messages. “Maybe if I call him and ask him to just come back, no strings attached, he will.”

“That’s the spirit! Save the talk for another day - tell you what, I’ll help you corrall him so he can’t escape the conversation. I’ll tie him to a chair and bar the door if needed!”

“Good luck with that. Kid’s slippery.” Still, Barnaby hits call again. It rings only a couple of times before a robotic automated message states the caller as unavailable. Barnaby doesn’t enjoy being upset with Wally. However, it feels like his blood is simmering, and the wall is starting to look like great target practice for his phone. He grits his teeth. “He turned off his phone.”

From the corner of his eye he sees Howdy’s eyebrows shoot up as the man turns back to his paperwork. He exhales a controlled breath and writes something down. “I have to say, I’ve never known him to be such a-”

“Pain in the neck?” Barnaby offers.

Howdy clicks his tongue. “You said it, not me.”

“Yeah, well, he’s full of surprises.” Barnaby lets out a frustrated huff. He’s half tempted to run Wally down right now, but he wouldn’t even know where to start. There’s only one freeway out of town, but it goes both ways, and it branches. Wally would have hit one of those branches by now, and who knows which he took. North, south, east, west. Deeper into the woods, or towards the city? To the coast? Somewhere else entirely?

He has to face the facts - there’s nothing to do. He just has to wait until Wally pulls his head out of his ass and realizes how stupid and insensitive he’s being. Those are two words Barnaby would never normally use to describe Wally, but after tonight? They seem fitting.

Barnaby can’t even muster up guilt for thinking such harsh things. He tried to be nice. He was patient. He’s always kept a lid on it whenever Wally frustrated him, which doesn’t happen often, but it does happen. And what does he get for caring? For being tactful and careful about a shitty situation?

Avoidance, a shove, and a cut call. Wally left Barnaby’s been left to stew in his own anger and worry. Right now, he’s inclined to lock up that worry in a tiny box in the back of his mind.

Barnaby pushes himself up with a grumbled, “I’m makin’ some coffee, want some?”

“If you’re offering then I will not decline.”

Barnaby pretends not to feel Howdy’s eyes following him to the apartment’s tiny kitchen. It’s hell to maneuver around in, and the frustration of bumping into something every five seconds only makes Barnaby’s mood worse. By the time the coffee is brewing, he’s ready to punch the cabinets. He won’t, but he wants to. He’d regret it immediately, but he stares at the chipped paint and fantasizes.

The coffee machine breaks after brewing a whopping single mug. Barnaby stares at it for a long moment, and tallies up the consequences of taking a hammer to it. In the end, he just clenches his fists for a long moment and counts to ten. He takes the mug and sets it in front of Howdy, then goes to the window to brood. Thankfully Howdy is too reabsorbed in his work to notice beyond a mumbled thanks.

For the next hour, Barnaby’s thoughts are entirely composed of Wally. Different scenarios of what might happen next, how Barnaby might handle those situations without shaking Wally for doing something so needlessly reckless, and cruel daydreams of setting Home on fire. Barnaby wants to feel bad about that. He doesn’t. That damn RV has caused two different rifts between Barnaby and Wally - and Barnaby was the one to fix both of them, because both times Wally just left.

He gets it. He really does - for a time Home was all that Wally had. It’s been with him since Wally was thirteen, and if the thought of retiring it to a dump makes Barnaby sad, he can only imagine how much it distresses Wally. Well, he can do more than make an educated guess. Wally practically told him tonight, if not with words than with actions.

Still. They’re adults - Wally is older than him, if only by a handful of months. When does Barnaby ever ask something of him? When does Barnaby ever push? Why can’t Wally see that Home is becoming a liability, and why won’t he listen? Barnaby can’t make it make sense.

Wally has always been more inclined to avoid conflict, but this is too far. Barnaby swears, when he tracks Wally down he’s going wring that scrawny little-

His phone is ringing.

Barnaby lunges for it, relief dousing his anger. He picks it up, ready to give Wally a piece of his mind and then beg him to come back-

“It’s an unknown number,” he says, shoulders slumping. Of course it’s an unknown number. Wally wouldn’t change on a dime and decide to be considerate for once. He exchanges an exasperated look with Howdy and declines. He goes to set the phone down - the number calls back.

“That’s one determined scammer,” Howdy says. He leans back in his chair and holds out a hand. “I’ll deal with ‘em.”

Barnaby is all too happy to hand it over. Let the poor sap on the other end of the line deal with a master swindler.

“Howdy-hi, how can I help?” Howdy starts with a mischievous grin thrown Barnaby’s way? He leans back in the chair and hums. “Who, may I query, is asking?”

All at once, the ease drains out of Howdy and he stops fidgeting. He sits up, already looking at Barnaby with a paled expression that has something cold slithering down Barnaby’s spine. Something is wrong.

“He’s right here.” Howdy holds out the phone. His throat works uselessly for a moment before he plainly states the obvious, “It’s for you.”

Barnaby takes it, his mouth abruptly dry. Howdy is already up and moving - grabbing his coat, his keys. “Hello?”

“Is this Barnaby Beagle?” a professional feminine voice asks, tinny through the phone.

“B. Beagle, yeah.”

The woman introduces herself as the nearest city’s hospital, and Barnaby’s heart drops through the floor. She asks him to confirm that he’s Wally Darling’s emergency contact. He confirms, his voice sounding distant to his own ears. Howdy takes his arm and gestures to his shoes by the door, spurring Barnaby into motion.

“Is he okay?” Barnaby manages to say. He puts the wrong shoe on the wrong foot and almost curses aloud as he switches it.

“Mr. Darling was involved in an automobile accident,” is all the hospital employee says. “He was brought in a few minutes ago.”

Barnaby steadies himself against the doorjamb, choking on a whispered, “Oh, god.”

Keys jingle as Howdy opens the door and pulls Barnaby through, then locks the door behind them.

“But is he okay?” Barnaby asks again as they hurry down the short hallway to the stairs.

“I’m not at liberty to disclose that information at present.”

It’s bad. It has to be bad if they won’t say anything over the phone. He must be silent for too long, because Howdy takes the phone, tells her they’ll be there soon, and hangs up. He tucks the phone into Barnaby’s pocket before opening the door to the store’s back lot.

The frigid air slaps the shock out of Barnaby, and sensation comes flooding back in. He grabs the keys out of Howdy’s hand and strides to the car with long, powerful strides that would leave anyone shorter than Howdy in the dust.

“Are you sure-”

“I’m driving,” Barnaby growls, cutting Howdy off.

Howdy makes a disapproving noise, but relents. They get in and Barnaby adjusts his seat with harsh movements, jabs the key into the ignition because Howdy’s car is a dated hunk of junk, and peels out of the parking space before Howdy even has his seatbelt all the way on.

Howdy clings to the ceiling handle as the car tears down the mostly empty street, going at least ten miles over the speed limit. Barnaby doesn’t know exactly where the hospital is, but he knows how to get to the city. They can figure it out from there. Several people honk as Barnaby brings them flying onto the freeway.

“Holy Marilyn marmalade!” Howdy screeches as they narrowly avoid side-swiping a minivan.

Barnaby ignores him and cuts off a pickup to get into the right lane for the interchange. Howdy whispers a string of something high pitched and strained and clings to the handle with both hands.

It takes him a moment to parse out the constant ramble as, “-pull over pull over pull over pull over-” Two honks and a squeal of tires as Barnaby almost causes an accident, and Howdy yells in a louder and deeper tone than Barnaby has ever heard from him, “PULL OVER!”

Barnaby clenches his jaw and cuts across the carpool lane’s double whites. It only takes a moment to reach the shoulder. Howdy leaps out of the passenger seat as soon as the car stops, marches to Barnaby’s side, and wrenches the door open.

“Out,” he snaps, breathing hard. “Barnaby, I swear to all things priceless, get out. “

Barnaby meets his steely gaze for all of a second before unbuckling and getting out. Cars whip by. Howdy huffs at him and slips into the driver’s seat, muttering about recklessness and disasters and if you would wait to try and kill us until we’re right outside the hospital, if only to save us the ambulance fee-

When Barnaby gets into the passenger seat, Howdy waits for him to buckle in with fingertips drumming on the steering wheel. He merges onto the freeway smoothly and carefully. They go slower than the speed Barnaby had them flying down the asphalt at, and it makes something deeply impatient itch in him, but it’s safer.

“I know you’re upset,” Howdy says, eyes still fixed on the road, “and I know that you’re scared. But what in hell’s bells was that, Barn?”

Barnaby side eyes him and grimaces, folding his arms. “I don’t know. I’m sorry - I shouldn’t have put you in danger like that.”

“You put yourself in danger too, you know.” Howdy sighs and relaxes his grip on the steering wheel. “We’re of no use to Wally if we get ourselves in a crash. What would he say?”

“Whatever he’d say would be hypocritical,” Barnaby says before he can think better of it.

Howdy glances sharply at him. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“He..” Barnaby’s voice fails on him, and he swallows hard. “He was in an accident.”

Howdy is silent for a full few seconds before he exhales a thin, pained sound. “Oh, Walls…”

He must not know what else to say, which is good and well, because Barnaby doesn’t either. A long few minutes pass of silence. Headlights of passing cars on the other side of the freeway flash over them before plunging back into darkness. The dials on the dash glow. The check engine light is on. They’ll need to get gas in order to make it home.

“I’m sure it’s not as bad as you’re thinking,” Howdy says. He’s tapping the steering wheel again. “It’s likely just a few scrapes and bruises, at worst a broken bone. Nothing Wally can’t handle, and certainly nothing to be concerned over.”

Barnaby can’t bring himself to agree. Maybe… maybe if Wally was driving slowly… but that wouldn’t matter if someone crashed into him with enough force. Home is a large, sturdy vehicle, but it isn’t invulnerable. Wally certainly isn’t.

Without the distraction of driving, all Barnaby can think about is the what ifs. Yeah, what if he’s only a little bit hurt, but what if it’s worse? All of the worst images Barnaby can think of roll through his mind like a messed up movie reel.

Wally dead on the scene, caught in a hunk of twisted metal.

Wally, choking on his own blood in an ambulance, dying en route to the hospital.

Wally flatlining on a metal table.

Wally’s small body covered with a sheet-

“Almost there,” Howdy says, slowing at a stoplight. It bathes them both in red. Barnaby didn’t notice when they got off the freeway.

Barnaby squeezes his eyes shut and presses his forehead to the cold window. After a moment, a slender hand rests on his thigh and squeezes. It’s such a small, stupid thing, but Barnaby breathes a little easier.

Despite the drive down the freeway feeling like it took hours, the drive through city streets to the hospital passes in a blink. Before Barnaby knows it the car is spiraling up to an upper floor of the parking garage. The floor is mostly empty - Howdy pulls into a spot right by glass double doors.

Barnaby gets out a split seconds before Howdy, staring at the pristine white walls just inside the doors. In a moment he’ll find out if it’s not that bad, or if he’s about to have the worst night of his life. He’s been to a hospital twice. The last time was for Howdy, but he went with the knowledge that it was only a precaution. The other time was for Mama’s health scare.

That had been terrifying. The waiting, the wondering, the too-bright hallways and the staff’s rigid smiles. It ended well, but it had still been horrible, and hospitals took center stage in some of his recurring nightmares. Barnaby never wanted to see another loved one in a hospital bed again.

Looks like he doesn’t have a choice.

Howdy comes around from the driver’s side and lays a hand on Barnaby’s shoulder. “If you need a moment to-”

“Nah,” Barnaby says, his voice rough. He nods and adjusts his sleeves. “Better rip the bandaid off.”

They go into the sterile maze. The bright overhead lights dazzle Barnaby’s eyes after being in the dim parking garage, and he grimaces at the strong odor of antiseptic and floor polish. Howdy makes a beeline for the nearest receptionist and talks to her in rushed, low tones.

Barnaby shuffles after him, rubbing his shaking hands together and eyeing every person in scrubs that walks past. Something beeps somewhere. He thinks he hears someone crying. This is a place without color, art, or happiness.

“This way,” Howdy says, walking past him and tilting his head at the elevator. Barnaby follows, feeling like a lost puppy dropped at the side of the road.

A nurse gets into the elevator with them and politely smiles before staring at the floor counter and pretending they don’t exist. It’s fine with Barnaby. If he has to make small talk right now, he might actually snap. The man’s pink scrubs are almost an eyesore in the harsh lighting.

The elevator dings, and they all get out on the same floor. Howdy reads door plaques and wall signs like a hawk, his head turning on a swivel as he reads everything at lightning speed. Barnaby nearly has to jog to keep up with his hurried pace.

Howdy changes direction without warning and heads straight for a door at the end of a short offshoot hallway. Barnaby reads the sign next to the door.

[can’t remember if it’s icu or the other thing, research later]

It’s bad.

The waiting room is small - longer than it is wide, and there’s a woman sleeping in a chair in the corner. It looks nicer than the emergency room, or where Barnaby waited to see his mama. The benches have colorful cushions, and the walls are a pastel green instead of white. There’s an abstract geometric painting on the wall next to the woman.

Barnaby slowly takes a seat on stiff cushions, watching Howdy talk to the receptionist from afar. He nods and pats the counter before joining Barnaby. He sits close enough that their legs press together.

“Someone will get us up to speed as soon as there’s news,” Howdy says. “I tried to pry some more out of him, but he wouldn’t give up another word.”

Barnaby nods, staring down at his hands. His nail polish is already chipping, despite Julie painting them only last weekend. Barnaby picks at the bright red on his pinkie until Howdy pulls his hand away and enfolds it in both of his own.

When Howdy takes a deep breath, Barnaby finds himself mimicking him. Their gazes meet - Howdy’s is unflinching, and steady. He smiles and runs his thumb over Barnaby’s knuckles, soothing the nervous trembling, and Barnaby is struck by how darn grateful he is to have Howdy with him.

If he had to do all of this alone… Barnaby doesn’t think he could. Either he’d have gotten himself into a crash to join Wally, or he would still be sitting in his car, staring at the hospital doors. He doesn’t have the courage. But Howdy does, and Barnaby loves him for it.

For once, Howdy lets the time pass in silence, though after a long stretch of indeterminable time he gets up to pace. The bench cushions are high quality, but they start to feel uncomfortable. Barnaby doesn’t dare go for a walk. At least they’re not the usual waiting room chairs - he’d rather stand than try to fit into those plastic, narrow things.

At some point the woman in the corner wakes up. She startles seeing two strangers in the room with her, but quickly ignores them. Barely a few minutes pass before she leaves, mumbling something about coffee. She doesn’t come back. Barnaby spends a while wondering why - did she go home, or wait somewhere else, or did she receive news in the halls?

Howdy sits down again and starts typing furiously on his phone. When Barnaby gives him a curious nudge, he quietly explains that he’s texting the group chat. Barnaby feels a twinge of guilt at that. He completely forgot to let everyone know that there’s a… situation. Who knows if any of them will see it until morning.

Message sent, Howdy gets up to pace some more. His rhythmic gait gives Barnaby something to focus on, seeing as the clock on the wall is silent, and the receptionist seems to be sleeping. Barnaby could probably pass time on his own phone, but every second spent distracted is a second he might miss someone coming to tell them…

What? Tell them what, exactly? That Wally is okay? That he can receive visitors?

That he didn’t make it?

The door opens, startling Barnaby to his feet. Howdy scurries over from the far side of the room and rests a steadying hand on Barnaby’s lower back. A woman clad in blue scrubs enters, reading something on a clipboard. There are shadows under her eyes, and she looks beyond exhausted. Barnaby can sympathize.

“Mr. Beagle?” the doctor asks, looking between them. When Barnaby nods, she smiles thinly, gaze flicking briefly to Howdy. “Hi. I’m Dr. Allen. Before I disclose any sensitive information, I’d like to confirm what your relation to the patient is.”

The question gives Barnaby pause. He’s always had a difficult time putting his and Wally’s relationship into simple terms, because it’s anything but. Wally is his best friend, his dearest companion, the man he lives with and can’t imagine being without.

“He’s my partner,” Barnaby settles on, because it’s a good umbrella term. Partner can mean a lot of things, and people don’t usually pry for specifics. “We’re as good as family.”

Dr. Allen writes something down on her clipboard. “No worries, I’m not going to kick you out if you’re not - you’re his emergency contact for a reason, after all. It’s just basic information that I’d like to have on hand.”

“Course - so how is he?” Barnaby cuts straight to the chase. He’s not in the mood for niceties.

“Well, Mr. Darling is certainly giving us a run for our money,” Allen sighs. “He’s not out of the woods yet, but I believe he’s gotten through the worst of it.”

“He’ll make it?”

Allen offers another tight lipped smile. “We’re doing our best.”

Barnaby has seen enough hospital dramas to know that we’re doing our best means no promises, prepare for the worst. Howdy must feel the tension gripping him like a vice, because his hand slips from Barnaby’s back to his hand.

“What are his injuries, if I may?” Howdy asks.

“I’m not sure-”

“Please. We’d rather know than wonder.”

Allen looks between them and sighs again. She flips a page on her clipboard. “Unfortunately, there was a bit of time between the crash and when emergency services were called. Between blood loss and the near-freezing temperatures, Mr. Darling developed mild hypothermia.”

Wally was dying, cold and alone in the wreckage of his home for who knows how long before anyone came to help. Barnaby sways in place, and Howdy helps him sit down on a bench instead of the floor. Allen looks apprehensive.

“Keep going,” Barnaby rasps. He needs to know.

Allen doesn’t look happy about it, but she continues. “Mr. Darling also suffered several low-grade lacerations from shrapnel, some fractured ribs, a compound fracture in his left tibia, and currently unidentified damage to his right hand and lower arm.”

Barnaby swallows a mournful sound. That’s fine, it’s fine. Broken bones heal - Wally will be painting again in no time.

“He also developed an intracranial hematoma. It’s been treated, but we won’t know the extent of the damage until Mr. Darling wakes up.”

“What is that?” Howdy asks before Barnaby can figure out how to speak again. “Intracranial hematoma - tell me if I’m wrong, but that sounds like a head injury.”

“It is - in layman’s terms, it’s a brain bleed. Head trauma can cause bleeding inside the skull, which puts pressure on the brain. We caught it as quickly as feasibly possible, which should raise his chance of a full recovery.” Allen flips the clipped page back into place. “There may still be lesser complications and injuries we haven’t been able to diagnose or address yet. I’ll be forward with you - this is one of the worst crash cases I’ve seen in some time. Mr. Darling was lucky to be found alive.”

Allen goes on to offer platitudes that Wally is a fighter, and easily answers the flood of questions Howdy has about the mentioned injuries. It all sounds distant. Underwater. The room is too small and the air is stale - are the vents working? Is there a window they can open?

In a blink - and yet the conversation lasts ages - Allen promises to come back with more information as soon as she has it. She smiles one last time and leaves.

“Barn?” Howdy sounds muffled. “Barn, are you alright?”

What kind of question is that? Of course Barnaby isn’t alright - his best friend is dying, likely on this very floor. There’s a chance he’s already dead. Barnaby might have already lost him, he just doesn’t know it yet.

Mr. Darling was lucky to be found alive.

One of the worst crash cases I’ve seen in some time.

Mild hypothermia - brain bleed - lacerations - fractures.

Lesser complications and injuries we haven’t been able to diagnose or address yet.

We’re doing our best.

“He hung up on me, the little bastard-”

Barnaby is up and out the door before he registers moving. He staggers down the hallways in a blur, everything swirling together into a mess of sight and sound as his lungs struggle to get a full breath. He bypasses the elevator and takes the stairs down to the level they parked on.

The cold air does nothing to help him breathe. Barnaby chokes on it as he leans against the rough wall grasping at his chest. Howdy is there immediately - he must have been on Barnaby’s heels the whole time.

“Talk to me, Barn,” Howdy pleads, a hand on the back of his neck and the other over the one Barnaby has on his chest. “What is it - you’re not having a heart attack, are you? Tell me you aren’t, I can’t handle that right now.”

Barnaby doesn’t know. Maybe? He feels like he is. He can’t breathe. He tries to say so, but the ragged gasps his breathing has devolved into doesn’t allow it. Howdy must know something he doesn’t, because he doesn’t run to get a doctor.

“How can I help?” he asks instead.

“Don’t - don’t - know,” Barnaby wheezes.

“Okay, alright, don’t worry, Barn, I’m here, I’m not going anywhere. Let’s try, ah - what were the steps? I didn’t exactly write them down, though in hindsight I should’ve - that’s not the point! It was… what a time to take after Eddie’s memory-”

It shouldn’t be helping, but Howdy’s constant stream of words grabs Barnaby’s attention. He manages to inhale nearly a full breath before it stutters back out and he’s struggling again.

“Breathing!” Howdy says. “Yes, that was it - Barnaby, I need you to focus on me. Copy my breathing.”

He sucks in a slow, dramatic breath through his nose and exhales just as slowly through his mouth. Barnaby catches on and tries to mimic him, but-

“Can’t, I ca-an’t,” Barnaby says. His chest hurts.

Howdy presses their foreheads together. “Yes, you can. Come now, Barn, in… out. Simplest thing in the world.”

It doesn’t feel simple, but Barnaby tries. It feels like forever before he manages a full inhale. He butchers the exhale, but Howdy praises the minor win before launching right back into measured breathing.

Barnaby finally manages a slow inhale and exhale, and suddenly it feels like the pressure filling his chest has vanished. He slumps against the wall, worn out. He puts his hand over Howdy’s mouth in the middle of another dramatic demonstration.

“You’re alright now?” Howdy says, peeling his hand off. Barnaby nods, and Howdy leans next to him with a whoosh. “Thank the stock market - I was starting to get light headed.”

It takes another few minutes for them to catch their breath. Barnaby straightens enough to rest his head on Howdy’s shoulder, breathing in his cheap cologne and homemade laundry detergent. Howdy cups the back of his neck and massages the tense muscle there.

“This will all turn out okay,” Howdy promises. “Wally is stubborn - I think we both know that well enough. By this time tomorrow we’ll be moving forward.”

Barnaby wants to be that optimistic, but this is real life. For all they know, moving forward means making funeral arrangements. His breathing stutters and he forces it to even out before he can start hyperventilating again.

A car pulls into a parking space with a gravelly sound. Barnaby pays it no mind until Howdy makes a surprised noise - Barnaby looks up, and his stomach churns.

Frank, Eddie, and Julie are all getting out of Frank’s car. They’re all in various states of dishevelment. Frank’s hair is a mess, and he has what looks like Eddie’s company jacket thrown on over his pajamas. Eddie is in little more than a shirt that says male? lol, more like mail! and boxers - he’s even wearing slippers instead of shoes, and his hair flops over his forehead in soft tufts. Julie’s hair is still in curlers, and though she’s wearing shoes, she’s in a too-long shirt over sweats that don’t belong to her. They’re paint-stained.

They rush across the parking lot, all worried faces and tired eyes. They’re already asking what happened, is Wally okay, Sally is getting Poppy, they should be here soon, has there been any news-

Barnaby lunges at the nearest trash can and vomits.

#IM SORRY FOR ANY HOSPITAL/PROCEDURAL INACCURACIES IM NOT TRYING TO BE ACCURATE AT THE MOMENT #except for the injuries. those are realistic and i did my due diligence. read a lot of first hand accounts! medical pages!#ohhhh this was so cozy to write #i mean. not as familiar as actual on-screen injuries but yk #its been too fluffy in here.#this is a mild example of my usual tastes and habits when it comes to fic & fiction #WHUMP CENTRAL BABEYYYYYY #i like it messy and painful!!! Lets Fuckin Go!!!!#this is a prime example of me not being able to shut the fuck up when writing #my scenes & convos just go on and on and on and on....#but yes! enjoy! the Crash arc is very thoroughly planned out in my head and lately its one of my favorite things to imagine before bed <3 #bedtime stories can be fictional characters going through horrible injuries & emotionally hurting each other #snippets from the bog #i will repeat what i have said multiple times before #i take the comic relief character. i hurt the comic relief character #i could have posted the little carnival half-scene. i could have #but ive been feeling stressed and caged and i need to let out some steam #and this is how i do that. controlled fictional violence <3

93 notes · View notes

pekoeboo · 4 months

Text

purification is a painful, painful process.

rough sketch based on a scene in the Ravenwood RP. Antony is confronted with a situation in which he has to utilize his divine power in order to save Melvin - who had been terribly poisoned. the only one strong enough to clear the poison from his system is Antony, but the boy's abilities come with the caveat that his physical body still isn't entirely capable of handling prolonged and intense bouts of purification for any extended length of time; even despite having been reborn as a demigod.

so that power breaks him from the inside out - just as it did back in Atria. he does manage to save Melvin, but at the cost of his own life... though no one is aware that he still retains the ability to come back from the dead by that point. ends up being quite a shock for everyone when he turns back up a few days later, naturally. ><;;

tbh, some pretty awful repeat trauma for Antony. poor kid doesn't deserve it, but the angst is just too good to pass up imo :0

please do not remove caption or repost. also on deviantart

#oc #antony papadopoulos #rp #ravenwood rp #angst #whump #tw blood #tw body horror #tw death mention #(?? just in case)#alSO i know i just dumped some random lore here that i've never fully explained before #i guess it counts as spoilers for the journal jkfghsdnf #but as always i'm cool with answering questions about stuff if y'all are confused #i try my best to explain things clearly but it's hard when there's missing context sometimes

64 notes · View notes

pixelatedraindrops · 1 month

Text

RAINCODE SICKFIC FINALE (SPOILERS)

My awaited finale to my RainCode Sickfics of the Heart Series is finally done at last!! This took me a couple of months to put together but I figured since I mentioned it months before and delayed it, I had to get it done as my next project. It's the MakoYuma sickfic where Yuma takes care of a seriously ill Makoto.

This fanfic is officially my longest RainCode fic to date, even beating HIWTHI's word length, so make sure to read it only if you have time! It's the final sequel to that fic as well.

Be Warned: This fic is on the angsty/extreme side with a few trigger warnings. Such as Vomiting, Psychological Trauma and Implied Suicide. Please take caution/care if you read!

Also yes! This is the second commission I received from FTAngel! (if I'm gonna commission someone for official looking work, then I'll ask for both my targets getting cared for hehe :3) This illustrates a scene toward the end of Chapter 7 (the fic will feature it as well)

There are actually a few people I'd like to shout out/credit for this fanfic's creation. So thank you all for unknowingly inspiring me ^-^

@gardenofskeletonss

Your art and thoughts of Makoto's past as a test subject were very helpful fodder to make this fic super angsty and tie to how much this poor thing has likely suffered. Helped me write down some good dialogue for the hallucinations and freakouts in the delirium stage. So Thank you for that!

@alfiely-art

Your small fic where Makoto age regresses when he got stressed gave me some good thoughts for writing Makoto's delirious behavior. Although I'm not a huge fan of age regression, reducing Makoto to a vulnerable and needy child-like state when super ill was a lot of fun! I love the idea of him being reduced to that since he never could be a child (and he is 3 freaking years old lmao)

@shiut

Those sprite edits you made really fueled my juices to continue wiring this fic. Having a picture in my head of what a vulnerable Makoto looked like was such an inspiration boost so thank you for taking the time to make those edits! I hope you don't mind me using some of them in the fic's 5th Chapter. Also your theory and thoughts of homunculi not being able to die from illness was briefly mentioned as well.

@draconicsparkle

Thank you for being my beta reader. I usually don't trust others to read my work but given how well your reading does with the community and in general, as well as you being a Makoto superfan, your encouragement really helped me feel more confident in continuing and getting this done. Thank you so much again.

With that out of the way, I hope you all enjoy the story!! I will still write more sickfics for RainCode, but this is the final one that I consider to be canon/post canon.

So I hope it delivers well!

Eat up RainCode and MakoYuma fans!

Hope the meal is to your liking~ ^-^ ♡

43 notes · View notes

yet-another-heathen · 3 months

Text

The First Ember - IX

1,921 words. Original work: The Jackal of An Nadr

<< | previous | next | >>

Content Warning | unintentional drug overdose by captors (bad side effects but not life threatening), fever whump, the very first signs of pneumonia, undressing while unconscious (medical reasons), heavy bruising, evidence of past noncon, wound/scar reveal, mention of unsanitary bodily fluids, [Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings]

Tag List | @killtheprotagonist @secretwhumplair @ink-and-salt @kixngiggles @brutal-nemesis @thebewilderer @whumpsical @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @whimperwoods @shydragonrider @pizzasthengym @thecyrulik @ceph-the-ghost-writer @mylifeisonthebookshelf @ohwhumpydays @redwingedwhump @whump-queen @scoundrelwithboba @suspicious-whumping-egg

The human looked like it might not survive the night.

Yeezumon had been cradling it for the last fifteen minutes while Odrai climbed down the side of the ship to gather sand from the dunes. It was already several hours into the night, but below the topmost inch of sand, the dunes were nearly as warm as they had been during the day. He returned to the deck and passed the bags down to Ifyaa. As he did, he cast a somewhat worried glance at the human. "How bad is it?"

"...I don't know yet," Ifyaa admitted, creating a nest on their cot with the bags. "It's running a bad fever, and...." He paused, sharing a worried look with Yeezumon. "And I think we may have overdosed it on the eadh."

The little thing was showing every sign of it there was. Breaths clouded with heavy mist, despite the warmth of the cabin. Excessive tears. Cold sweat. Everything across its body that could produce water was doing so in abundance. On its own it wouldn't have even been that concerning; eadh overdoses weren't fatal. But with the fever already ravaging its system? That changed everything.

Odrai seemed to realize as much. But all he could offer was, "If anyone can save it, it's you."

Ifyaa said quietly, "Thank you, Odrai."

"We'll call on you if we need anything, but you should go," Yeezumon said gently. The human was starting into another fit of incoherent crying. "It isn't safe."

Odrai just nodded, giving the human one last, lingering look. Then he was gone, the trap door shut behind him.

The Husbands shared another look, then turned their attention back to the human. It was clinging onto Yeezumon like a lifeline, face pressed flush against the heat of his chest. Every inch of it was violently shivering against the cold. Its clothes were nearly soaked through with sweat, even to the outermost layer of its robes. Long hair had come loose from its braids and gotten tangled from tossing and turning beneath the sheets. Tear tracks, snot, and saliva smeared parts of its face. It was entirely a mess.

It was crying. Sometimes letting out incoherent jumbles of words as it dreamed, but mostly just crying. Every whine sent waves of glowing, orange pain through their chests like embers being caught by a breeze. It felt like a barb tugging on the wrong side of Ifyaa's sternum, as sharp as it was disturbing.

He sat down on the edge of the cot, wringing out the cloth in warm water. Its eyes barely opened at all, and when they did there was no coherent thought at all behind them. Drifting, unseeing. Wherever it was in its dreams, it was lost there. And still, when Ifyaa brought the cloth to gently dab at its face, it immediately twisted away. Gasping. Taking in deep, clouded breaths like it was struggling to breathe.

There was every chance it was. The only time that an eadh overdose could be dangerous was if the lungs began to fill with fluid. That usually took weeks of constant overuse before it became a problem. But Ifyaa could hear the crackling of its lungs when it breathed too deep. Just because something was safe for the ifrit didn't necessarily mean it was for a human.

It took a while for the wave of crying to pass, the human already so burnt out that it simply couldn't continue. Yeezumon continued murmuring reassurances against its temple, running hands over it to try to give it more warmth.

Both of them were worried. But the look on Yeezumon's face was heartbreaking.

"Habibi, if I've killed it—"

"No. No, love." Ifyaa laid a hand on his cheek. "It won't be because of the eadh. If it doesn't make it, it will be because of the fever. You haven't done anything that can't be fixed with time."

"It might not have time."

All he could do was manage a small smile. "Have you met this thing? Don't give up on it just yet."

That managed to get a huff of air. It wasn't much, but it was a start.

"Here. Help me get it out of its robes."

They moved it to the bed, Yeezumon settling in behind its back. His fingers started on the lacing of its robe. The little thing barely even stirred, boneless aside from the rhythmic strain of its breaths.

They worked its clothes off in effortless tandem. First the burnt sepia-orange of its outer robes. Then the long pants it wore beneath, and finally the soaked-through fabric of its kurta.

Both of them stopped entirely when they saw what was underneath.

Bruises, mottled all across bronze skin. Across its stomach. Its knees. Rope burns spun around its wrists and ankles. A massive, red-purple blotch colored its hip most of the way down one thigh. But they were nothing compared to the dozens of bruises along the inside of its thighs and encircling its upper arms. Many the still-recognizable shape of hands.

Its chest had been wrapped with a long length of bandaging, nearly covering its entire ribcage. Just beneath its collarbone on the side of its heart, an angry red brand lay scabbed and broken. The symbol was nearly the size of the boy's own palm. It looked like calligraphy, the kind that the Qa'imrani merchants along the east edge of the desert used for trade.

Ifyaa recognized the script before Yeezumon did.

"The boy has been branded a thief."

It took several long moments for the implications to sink in for both of them. The horror of it wasn't even that it was a criminal. They were on a pirate ship, after all. It was so much worse than that.

"So that's why we found it all alone out there." Yeezumon wiped a hand down his face. "Its own people left it out there to die."

Over something that as an ifrit would, at worst, have lost a hand over. The two of them already knew what little regard humans had for each other's lives, but staring down the evidence of it was sickening.

"The mark can't be more than a week or two old."

"No wonder it reacted to the iron as badly as it did. And all this...." He was still staring at the bruises that disappeared all the way up under its innerwear. "It didn't even show other signs that it was hurt."

Ifyaa probed gently over the bandage on its chest. "Help me lift it up a little. I need to see how bad the wounds are."

They readjusted, and Ifyaa began unwinding the linen starting at the bottom of its ribs. He was careful not to press too firmly, no idea what he was going to find.

But with every unwound coil, he found only more unbroken skin beneath. A few mottled bruises, but no cuts. And his gentle probing only produced the faint winces that he'd expect of tender bruising. Nothing that indicated broken ribs.

Ifyaa's eyebrows furrowed. And then with one more undone loop, his face lit up with surprise. "Oh."

The jackal wasn't hurt.

It wasn't a bandage.

Beneath the soft, brown waves of chest hair he'd been expecting, there were breasts. It was clear they'd been intentionally softened and made flatter over time, either by the repeated compression, or by hand. The boy wasn't hurt. He'd been binding. And by the looks of it, he'd been doing so for a very long time.

The Husbands made a flash of eye contact over the top of him. Then after a pause, Ifyaa's hands moved to carefully check over the rest of its ribs. It had a rather spectacular bruise on its shoulder to match the one on its hip, but aside from that he found nothing.

"Well....that's far better than I'd expected to find. At least nothing is broken. Here, lend me your hands."

Yeezumon helped him to work off its innerwear. He'd been planning to do so anyway, it needed as much skin-to-skin contact as possible for warmth. But it was the final confirmation of what they both suspected. While he certainly was a man now, he hadn't been born that way. He was one of the Inan.

And there was even more evidence of what had been done to him all the way up his thighs. Layers of bruises, in addition to scratch marks on his hips. This couldn't all be the work of one man. It was brutal.

"Gods..." Yeezumon whispered. "No wonder it's so terrified. If its own people did this, imagine what it must think is coming for it now."

Its shivering had badly worsened with its skin exposed to the air, and its unconscious sounds of distress were as sad as they were painful. Yeezumon spent a moment working down his own pants, then lay down and drew it closer against his chest.

He was careful to keep it away from his own bandaged shoulder, but was able to position a sandbag between its thighs where the arteries ran beneath. Then he wrapped it up in all his remaining arms, a loose embrace that it sank into immediately. A few more tears raced down its cheek. But its breaths were already coming easier now that the pressure of the binding was gone. And soon what sounds it was making were ones of exhausted, boneless relief.

Ifyaa spent a while longer cleaning the worst of the sweat from its skin, then undressed and joined them. Half his arms braided themselves between his Husband's, while the other set about gently teasing the tangles back out of the boy's hair.

"It's going to be so angry with us in the morning," he said.

Yeezumon chuckled. "Without even the faintest doubt." A moment of quiet. "I'm almost afraid to give it more eadh at all, come tomorrow. Is there anything in the infirmary we can use as an alternative?"

"Nothing with so few side effects. We'll just have to start in much smaller doses, and see how it tolerates it."

"Mm."

He fit his hand into one of Yeezumon's, and gave a small squeeze. They'd been married for three centuries. He knew the sound of his husband's guilt. "He's going to be alright, Habibi. Don't spare your regret on something that hasn't happened yet."

Yeezumon sighed, but gave a small nod.

Softly, "I'll take first watch. Get some sleep."

Another nod. Then as was their way, "I love you always."

"I love you longer still."

They lapsed into silence. Ifyaa spent the time carding gently through the human's hair. He enjoyed the feeling of loose waves that were so different from the curls he was familiar with. And though his mind drifted, he continued to listen as the human's heart evened out and slowed. It was falling into deeper sleep at last.

....but after a while, something caught at the edge of his senses. The rich smell of incense, edged with a coppery tang that made his head start to spin. Pheromones as familiar to him as the number of his hands. His mouth twitched up.

He knew exactly what his husband was thinking about—because he'd been thinking it, too. "Don't get too tempted," he said, not bothering to hide the amusement in his voice. "I know full well how you get when you're around them."

Yeezumon didn't open his eyes, but his mouth twitched. "You're just as guilty as me."

A chuckle. Yes, that he was. “We're still selling him.”

“Wouldn't even dream otherwise.”

next | >>

Like this chapter? Please remember it can only be seen by other people if you reblog!

33 notes · View notes

befuddled-calico-whump · 2 days

Text

special guest for the Menagerie AU

#the concept was a collaborative effort on my other blog but i love her so much so she goes here too 🥺#lady whump #she's transfem!#her species doesn't have a concept of gender (or they didn't before human interference) but she was born in captivity #and her 'owner' raised her male because she has a binary mindset #t$$ Veronica #t$$ menagerie au

23 notes · View notes

whumporpass · 18 days

Note

May I introduce to you: Clan Techie. This poor bun-bun is the whumpiest flavor of whump to ever whump. Kid has so far had a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad d… uh … life. Landed in the clutches of Ma-Ma and her clan (basically a drug syndicate), he's threatened, abused - both verbally and physically - and coerced into helping the clan control and terrorize the whole of Peach Trees Mega Block. By now, this boy is scared of his own shadow. He needs to be wrapped in a blanket and spoon-fed home-made chicken soup, okay? Preferably after putting him in the emotional wringer a little more, because … ah, what can I say, your honour? I love him, and my love is terrible. <3

#clan techie #dredd 2012 #whump or pass poll #tw fake gun #fuck it. one more before I stop saying things here lmao #my bias incoming #whump him. I’d never heard of him before this but he must be whumped.

22 notes · View notes

plasmodiumpyrexia · 2 years

Text

“S-sorry, I just... I don’t feel good.” Tears welled in [A]’s eyes as they leaned into [B] who instantly felt an alarming heat radiating from their skin. “I really don’t...”

#fever #whump #whump prompt #sickfic whump #dialogue #love when they break down while admitting that they're sick #especially when it's out of character for them #[A] is almost sobbing and [B] checks their forehead before holding them for a while #i'm picturing [B] as the caretaker here #there are many possibilities here

397 notes · View notes

mantisgodsdomain · 1 month

Link

Fandom: Bug Fables (Video Game) Characters: Astotheles (Bug Fables), Butomu (Bug Fables), Niothibng (OC) Additional Tags: Whump, Alternate Universe - Selkies, rope burns, magical bindings, Dehydration, Starvation Series: Part 1 of Febuwhump 2024, Part 5 of Febuwhump, Part 1 of Selkieverse Summary:

A geis or geas (pl. geasa) is an idiosyncratic taboo, whether of obligation or prohibition, similar to being under a vow or curse, yet the observance of which can also bring power and blessings. It is also used to mean specifically a spell prohibiting some action. Geasa are common in Irish and Scottish folklore and mythology, as well as in modern English-language fantasy fiction.

(Geas. (2024, Feb 5). In Wikipedia. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Geas)

#bug fables #we speak #fanfiction #writing #we post our works #whump #FINALLY this escapes from the beta vortex. you have probably seen this before but if not:#heres febuwhump day 5 #rope burns #febuwhump2024 #febuwhumpday5 #et cetera #selkieverse #have decided the one pairing being present for one line isnt enough to necessitate a tag

14 notes · View notes

whoops-all-whump · 1 year

Text

Detective Conan: The Bride of Halloween

Furuya chases after Plamya, but gets caught by a grenade blast.

#detective conan #m25 spoilers #furuya rei #amuro tooru #anime whump #whump #i posted this clip before but now here's the better quality version <3

322 notes · View notes

doctorcanon · 5 months

Text

"Hurry!"

I haven't been well for a few days now so I drew something dark. Or "whump"ish, I suppose. I think I'm sticking with this Nowhere design. Not sure about the Captain. It was gonna be Sky but I chickened out.

tw: blood, major injury, and angst

#A link to the past #Hyrule Warriors #whump #my art #Nowhere link #linked universe #lu legend #legend Lu #Warriors lu #lu warriors #Captain Link #not super sure about the ethics of tagging here #but it was inspired by it #you might notice I have done this pose before but instead of tracing csp models #I just HEAVILY referenced them. but I did trace the hands as usual.#Just the hands tho.

21 notes · View notes

starzzyeyed · 7 months

Text

With All Your Heart And Soul

Summary:

Spencer knows better than to pray, he does. But right now, sitting here in the cold, with the all-consuming blackness all around him, he thinks that, maybe, he’ll give it a try. Maybe it’s worth a shot. It’s highly unlikely to make anything worse, after all. Or: Spencer gets kidnapped. What follows is the team's desperate attempts to track the person who took him, and events that, for Spencer, are worse than anything he's lived through so far.

Rating: Explicit. 18+ only. Minors DNI please.

Overall Warnings: Kidnapping, blood, detailed descriptions of violence, torture and injury.

Chapter Warnings: Mentioned kidnapping, being held captive, vomit

For @tobias-hankel 's pre-whumptober challenge!

Read Chaper One under the cut or on AO3 here!

Spencer’s been missing for three days, and Hotch is going to lose it if they don’t get any leads soon.

Actually, he’s been missing for a minimum of three days, and a maximum of seventeen, but Hotch can’t think about the bigger number because if he does, he’s not sure he could keep showing up to work.

He’s not sure he could keep his stomach contents where it should be, either.

It’s a piss poor use of the word work, too, since all he’s done for the last three days is stand grim faced and pale in various corners of various rooms, while the rest of the team frantically oscillate between trying to gather any and all information that might help them find the bastard that took their Reid, and attempt – and ultimately fail – to order Hotch to, as Morgan had so eloquently put it the last time the topic had been broached, go the fuck home.

He knows he’s no use to them there; he’d been officially removed from the case as soon as it became clear that this was a missing person situation, as is protocol when the victim has a connection that goes beyond friendship to someone on the team. Which, he might not be as clever as Spencer is, but he’s fairly certain that husband might just fall into that category.

Even if he hadn’t been removed, he knows he’s in no position to help anyone. He can’t even look at the board that JJ and Garcia have been laboriously going over for the last six hours without feeling like he’s going to be physically sick, and the once fresh cup of coffee in his hand isn’t helping matters either.

But leaving, even if it’s just to go back to their house, feels like he’s giving up on Spencer and he can’t do that, not now, not ever. They’ll have to drag him kicking and screaming out of the building if they want him gone, and despite some similar threats from Morgan, and gentle placations from Dave, he knows no one is going to enforce it.

A tiny part of him almost wishes they would.

Distantly, he hears JJ shouting at someone on the phone, demanding that they hand over the security footage that she’s asked for three times now, instead of being pig-headed and demanding they turn up with a warrant first. Hotch wonders what else this small-town gas station owner has on his computer that he’s so terrified of being uncovered. He knows Spencer would have statistics for all of his internal questions; everything ranging from the number of self-employed people who have a petty criminal record they try to keep secret at all costs, despite the fact that they have no overseeing employer to get hung up about it, to those who stupidly use their work computers to harbour illegal files or other such documents.

He can practically hear his husband’s voice, can virtually see his face; abruptly paused midway through reeling off the facts at a mile a minute, suddenly realising he’s rambling and looking to Hotch for guidance, to steer him back to the origin of his spiel, and suddenly, the combination of severe lack of sleep and half-drunk cups of stone-cold coffee becomes too much.

Hotch barely hears JJ asking the person on the other end of the line to hold, and he doesn’t hear her yelling for Morgan at all.

He doesn’t know much about anything for a few seconds, but as his knees hit the cold tiles of the bathroom floor, it dawns on him how lucky he is that his body somehow managed to navigate him to the toilet by itself, rather than leaving him to throw up in the middle of the bullpen, in front of not only his own team, but every other agent with a desk there. Not to mention any potential passing agents or other members of staff.

A shudder makes its way through his body, and he leans further over the toilet, one arm flung over the seat with complete disregard for his suit jacket.

Spencer would have a fit if he could see him now. Sick or not, putting his hands anywhere even remotely near a public toilet would have his husband reeling, and he’s got a whole sleeve just casually draped there.

It doesn’t matter anyway. He’s worn this suit for three days now.

He’s vaguely aware of someone else entering the bathroom just as his stomach lurches, and he only just manages to get his head above the toilet bowl before he retches, a pathetically small amount of undigested toast that Garcia had managed to get him to eat that morning coming up along with the coffee that he’d tried to force himself to drink, to keep himself awake in case any news came in, that had sat like a rock in his stomach.

The footsteps stop at the open cubicle door where he’s half draped over the toilet, half over the floor, but whoever it is is stood behind him, obscuring their shoes from his peripheral vision. It’s probably Penelope. He expects JJ told her, and he knows the sign with a stick man figure hanging above the bathroom door wouldn’t have had her even batting an eyelid about not entering.

“Hotch.”

Only, that’s not her voice, and Hotch groans, barely managing to lift his head from the toilet to look at the man staring back at him, arms crossed over his chest and a look of poorly concealed worry on his face.

“Hotch, man, we’re gonna find him. You know we are.”

It’s not like Morgan to say things that he doesn’t believe to be true, and the certainty in his voice gives Hotch the briefest pause, before his stomach churns again and he’s forced to turn his attention back to the toilet.

He jumps when a hand comes to rest on his back, and a moment later Morgan’s squishing himself into the stall with him, his back resting against the opposite wall to Hotch’s while his hand never leaves his shoulder.

“Hey.”

Morgan doesn’t say anything more until Hotch drags his gaze up to meet his, and the absolute exhaustion present in the older man’s expression, the utter weariness that shows on his face is so much worse than the tears Morgan sees gathering in his eyes.

“We’re going to find him,” he repeats, and he holds up the index finger on his other hand when he sees Hotch go to speak. “We are, Hotch. You can’t give up hope now. This is Reid we’re talking about; he’s not going to give in that easy.”

Hotch takes a shuddering breath in, feeling what tiny bit of energy he’d been holding on to draining from his body in the breath he lets back out. He’s been running on nothing but fumes for hours now, there’s nothing left but a soul-destroying helplessness, the knowledge that he can’t do anything until they get a solid lead, can’t risk following up on dead ends that take him away from Quantico, from home, from everything he associates with Spencer and everything he needs to be near for when Spencer comes back.

“I can’t lose him,” he whispers, and Morgan bites his lip when he sees several tears escape Hotch’s eyes. Perhaps worse than that is the fact that Hotch makes no move to wipe them away. Maybe he doesn’t even realise they’ve fallen in the first place.

“You won’t. We won’t,” he says, as assuring as he can, and while his relationship with God is rocky at best, right now he’d willingly pray every day for the rest of his life if it meant they got Spencer Reid back to them in one piece. He squeezes Hotch’s shoulder, waiting until his boss looks up to meet his eyes before he gives his best reassuring smile. “He knows how much you need him, Hotch. He’s not going anywhere.”

It takes a moment, but eventually, Hotch nods and Morgan feels like he can breathe again. He stands up, allowing the other man a moment to compose himself, before he offers a hand and pulls Hotch to his feet, giving him a second to get used to being upright again before he guides his friend over to the sinks so he can clean himself up.

Because that’s what he is, Morgan thinks as he ducks back into the stall to flush away the meagre amount of vomit still sitting in the toilet. Hotch is his friend first and foremost, and his boss second. Just the same as Reid is his best friend before he’s his colleague. The fact that these two people are married to each other matters so little usually, but right now it’s making an already unbearable situation so much worse.

As he leans against the main door of the bathroom, preventing anyone else from coming in, Morgan prays quietly that nothing he’s said turns out to be untrue. He doesn’t know how he’d go on in life if Reid wasn’t there to annoy the shit out of him every day with his facts and statistics, but Hotch… he doesn’t want to even think about what might happen to one of his oldest friends if he never sees his husband alive and in the flesh again.

He doesn’t know it then, but he will soon find out that it’s his first prayer of many.

He waits patiently for Hotch to regain the composure he needs to go back out into the bullpen, however briefly he will be there before Morgan can rally some backup to force him somewhere to lay down, since it’s clear he’s not going to be able to remain on his feet much longer if they don’t get him somewhere he can feel safe to sleep.

When the other man appears next to him, looking worn and weary and haggard; his eyes red and raw and tired, Morgan grasps shoulder and squeezes, looking directly into his eyes for a moment, before he opens the door and follows him back out to where the rest of the team are undoubtedly going to be waiting. He hopes there will be some good news; a new lead, a potential witness, something, anything that will lead them to wherever Spencer has been taken, but he knows deep down that all that will be waiting to greet them is worried faces and palpable fear hanging in the air all around.

God, please let Spencer Reid live.

~*~

Thousands of miles away, the man consuming everyone’s fears and thoughts, sits chained and unconscious in a stone-walled dungeon.

#I had way to much fun making the cover picture for this #lol can you tell #starzzy writes hotchreid #I've never posted a fic to tumblr before so pls let me know if there's anything I need to alter!#definitely don't think I'm posting any of the darker chapters here just in case #18+ only #whump #spencer reid #aaron hotchner #hotchreid #hotchreid fanfic #minors dni #wayhas

28 notes · View notes